this post is not worthy of a title.
I don't know what is happening and I don't want to know.
All I know is that I am sitting in bed, lying awake, and not because of a mosquito. I will tell you a secret, but promise that you won't laugh. Promise?
I am too ashamed to say that I'm crying.
[In a more jolly post, I would have made a joke about how this could be the beginning of a "Twilight" novel sequel, or prequel; where Bella has dreams about Edward before they meet, and she wakes up crying in bed because she doesn't understand why her heart aches so much. But this time I won't.]
I am sitting in bed, crying, and reading the updates on my twitter feed. That is, because of the lack of sleep.
The banality that is another fashion blogger tweeting a picture of her dog when she was two months old is followed by someone's tweet of sadness towards what is happening in Lebanon, right now. Their ironic tweet, really, about how they will only know that something is wrong, when "Li Bayrut," a song that gives homage to Beirut and that prays for peace and prosperity in Beirut, begins to play.
And even the classical music I listen to cannot drown the sound of gunfire in the distance.
The clothes I laid out for tomorrow, the food I neatly packed in tupperwares for lunch... It all seems painfully mundane. Worse, it seems useless.
Because at this point, you know they are fighting. You know that they are brothers, and that they are still fighting. Killing off each other, because to them, that is always the answer. Every year, a country takes a step forward. Every year, a country thrives. And you can be sure, that for every half a step forward any country may take, Lebanon will ever so expertly be taking ten steps backwards.
And you, poor, poor Lebanese, sit in bed. You try to sleep but you can't. You think about those burning tires. You worry about your family. About your brother stuck in school, overnighting for a project. You worry about your wife, your kids. You worry about your mother, your father. You worry about getting to work tomorrow. And in between the worrying, you hear the gunfire sound in the black of the night. Again. And again.
I wish this were a story. So I could end it my way. So I could write off a happy ending for us all.
But I can't.
I don't know what is happening. And I do not know what happens next. In Lebanon, anyway, you never do. In Lebanon, you listen to the news, curse your politicians, and count the dead.
And in my case, you cry in bed.
Here is hoping that tomorrow we will go back to the sad joke that is safety in Beirut.
[I can still hear the gunfire.]
Good night.
Sarah.
All I know is that I am sitting in bed, lying awake, and not because of a mosquito. I will tell you a secret, but promise that you won't laugh. Promise?
I am too ashamed to say that I'm crying.
[In a more jolly post, I would have made a joke about how this could be the beginning of a "Twilight" novel sequel, or prequel; where Bella has dreams about Edward before they meet, and she wakes up crying in bed because she doesn't understand why her heart aches so much. But this time I won't.]
I am sitting in bed, crying, and reading the updates on my twitter feed. That is, because of the lack of sleep.
The banality that is another fashion blogger tweeting a picture of her dog when she was two months old is followed by someone's tweet of sadness towards what is happening in Lebanon, right now. Their ironic tweet, really, about how they will only know that something is wrong, when "Li Bayrut," a song that gives homage to Beirut and that prays for peace and prosperity in Beirut, begins to play.
And even the classical music I listen to cannot drown the sound of gunfire in the distance.
The clothes I laid out for tomorrow, the food I neatly packed in tupperwares for lunch... It all seems painfully mundane. Worse, it seems useless.
Because at this point, you know they are fighting. You know that they are brothers, and that they are still fighting. Killing off each other, because to them, that is always the answer. Every year, a country takes a step forward. Every year, a country thrives. And you can be sure, that for every half a step forward any country may take, Lebanon will ever so expertly be taking ten steps backwards.
And you, poor, poor Lebanese, sit in bed. You try to sleep but you can't. You think about those burning tires. You worry about your family. About your brother stuck in school, overnighting for a project. You worry about your wife, your kids. You worry about your mother, your father. You worry about getting to work tomorrow. And in between the worrying, you hear the gunfire sound in the black of the night. Again. And again.
I wish this were a story. So I could end it my way. So I could write off a happy ending for us all.
But I can't.
I don't know what is happening. And I do not know what happens next. In Lebanon, anyway, you never do. In Lebanon, you listen to the news, curse your politicians, and count the dead.
And in my case, you cry in bed.
Here is hoping that tomorrow we will go back to the sad joke that is safety in Beirut.
[I can still hear the gunfire.]
Good night.
Sarah.
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